


Hopeful Undertone

by edy



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mall Santa Claus, Past Character Death, Tarot, Witchcraft, palmistry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28228197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edy/pseuds/edy
Summary: In which Tyler is an elf for the mall Santa and reads palms and tarot cards on his lunch break.
Relationships: Josh Dun/Tyler Joseph
Comments: 14
Kudos: 39





	Hopeful Undertone

**Author's Note:**

> "christmas saves the year" brought me back here. i started this fic in 2018, and i could never get it to work no matter how much i chipped away at it. and then, tyler did his christmas stream (love you), and now suddenly, this fic is done? maybe? (we'll see what happens in the future (i say this about all my fics) (oh, all the sequels and second chapters i have bouncing around in my head)) 
> 
> i'm not sure if what i'm feeling is satisfaction or relief at finally finishing this… both of these things can be true :-)
> 
> happy holidays!

Bath & Body Works' Semi-Annual Sale kicks off with shopping carts rounding corners and purses and small hands sending bottles of lotion, hand sanitizer, and the lone candle to the stark tile floor. Not every collision ends in disaster; most ends in the nearest worker putting on their best smile and higher-than-usual voice as they lie through their teeth and return the stock to the rightful shelf. "Oh, that's fine! I hope you have a good day!"

When Tyler sees the toddler stretch up in their stroller to tug at a bottle of body butter on the next-to-last row of the carefully constructed pyramid, he knows this collusion in particular will end in disaster—and he can't stop himself from watching it unfold as he squeezes out some vanilla lotion from his own holiday shopping spree and spreads it over his hands. The application is slow, as is the sight of each bottle tumbling down. The fingertips of Tyler's right hand come to rest on the webs of his left, slipping slowly to curling fingers, and the mother of the curious toddler yanks the stroller from danger—to only back into a table home to the Winter Candy Apple, Vanilla Bean Noel, and Twisted Peppermint specialized lotions. Tyler cringes, then, and turns his head from the crime scene to engage with his phone vibrating at his elbows.

Screen alight and fixed on his internet browser, Tyler raises his arm and digs his elbow into his phone, shoving the device into his lap and out of the watchful eyes that wander into his kiosk. A woman with a pinched nose and a man with a permanent grin walk into the tent Tyler's friends helped put up this morning and immediately drop into the set of chairs across from Tyler.

"It's free, right?" the woman says, and holds out her hand.

Tyler works the lotion into his knuckles. He watches the man turn in his chair to gaze at the store directly behind them. More commotion, more reassurances everything is fine—Tyler feels sorry for the underpaid temporary teens scrambling to form the pyramid again. They need to make it perfect.

"The sign," the woman continues, snapping to attract Tyler's attention. "It says it's free." She shifts her weight in the chair, glancing up and down Tyler's body. Her nose wrinkles, and her face looks more disgusted than intrigued, unlike her male companion in the seat beside her.

Where she only has scorn for the candy-cane tights on Tyler's legs and anguish for the handmade green sweater too baggy for his torso, her friend is cheerful. He scans Tyler's clothes, the blush patted onto Tyler's cheeks, and the white mascara flicked onto his lashes, and… he smiles. It's a soft smile, one that brightens the interior of this cheap tent cover draped over Tyler's lavish setup of a lava lamp, a table, and three chairs. When Tyler crosses his legs, the bells on his shoes jingle, much to the girl's horror. The man, he smiles again, teeth showing now as he says, "Hi, I'm Josh."

Apparently, that was wrong of him to say. Tyler is about to extend his own pleasantries when the woman sends the back of her hand into a meant-to-be-playful slap into Josh's arm. "You don't tell these people your name," she says, ignoring the way Josh rubs his arm and glances at Tyler.

"These people?" Josh asks, eyebrow quirking up.

" _Psychics_ ," she whispers, like Tyler isn't meant to hear such things when just this morning, he was the one to buy a whiteboard and markers from Walmart to decorate a sign that reads "Free Palm and Tarot Card Readings" so he can prop it by the entrance of his humble workspace.

If Tyler wanted to be nice to the people who stumble in here with their friends and more laughter than he could possibly tolerate with a migraine, then he wouldn't have fed into their self-fulfilling prophecies. It doesn't take a medium to distinguish whether someone is happy in their current relationship or if they're hellbent on finding happiness. His customers, if he can call them that since they don't pay him, tend to fill in the blanks. If he mutters, "Oh, dear, your heart line…," then they finish it with, "My boyfriend broke up with me last weekend! _How did you know that?_ "

That's what they always finish with— _how did you know that?_

It's tricky, though. He still needs to act like he knows what he's doing. Having soft hands and a gentle voice is beneficial. Between each session, he reads up on tarot card meanings and different interpretations of palmistry. As a child, he learned all he could from his mother, but time is fickle, and memory even more so.

His phone is a lit match in his lap.

The girl shares a final look with Josh before returning to Tyler and brandishing her hand toward him again. "Do me," she says, her palm up, her nails painted and too long to bring anybody pleasure.

Tyler takes her hand while staring at Josh. "My name is Tyler, by the way."

Josh smiles. "Hi, Tyler." He's still rubbing his arm, a perturbed expression on his face—an expression he fights to get rid of while straightening in his seat to appear interested in Tyler and the masterful palm reading he's about to do. Tyler watches him again, watches him chew on the inside of his cheek. The tip of his nose is pink, and Tyler knows it isn't because of the cold weather outside.

"Uh," Tyler says, clearing his throat. "We—"

"Are you going to do it or not?" She rolls her eyes.

Tyler gives a yank on her hand, stretching out her arm and getting into her personal space. She looks skeptical, but Josh is into it. He's smiling behind his hand.

"We shall start with your life line." Tyler sticks out his index finger, waving the tip around as if it were a magic wand, and recites word for word what he read from a webpage not even five minutes ago. "Now… some people think this line can be used to determine the length of your life, but that is only half true. The life line actually reflects a person's physical vitality and life energy."

She _ooh_ s and glances at Josh. Josh raises his eyebrows and tilts up the corner of his mouth.

"So," she says, grinning, "what does it say?"

This is when Tyler can either begin to lie or actually spew what knowledge he managed to memorize in two hours in two-minute intervals. He has another twenty minutes to go until the fake snow and impatient parents drop another migraine into his skull. He has another twenty minutes to go until he's forced to think about something other than—

"What does it say?" she persists, and wiggles her fingers in his face.

Tyler waves his fingertip again, a slow circle, before settling it on the meaty part of her thumb. "Well, you don't have a life line, sweetheart."

Josh frowns.

She squirms in her seat. "And w-what does that mean?"

Softly tutting, Tyler shakes his head from side to side. The move escalates suspense. The move makes Josh stifle laughter behind pressed-together lips and a clenched jaw. "It's not good at all," Tyler laments. "Poor health, a short life, it means you're liable to get sick and have accidents."

"What—?"

He doesn't wait. He can't wait. He raises that fingertip again and draws a line on the next section of her palm. "Let's look at your head line next." Tyler sighs. "Short—hasty, careless, indecisive."

Josh's eyes widen.

"Your heart line?" Tyler drags his finger to it. "Short again—self-centered, ruthless; your love life is not pleasant."

While she fights to reclaim possession of her hand, Josh fights to keep from laughing.

"And your marriage line?" Tyler leans in, squeezing her wrist, his face in hers. " _Forget about it_. You're passionless. You'll marry late in life—"

"I'm done," she hisses, wrenching her wrist from Tyler's fist. " _We're_ done. This is _fake_. _You're_ _fake_. No wonder you're not asking for money."

Tyler pushes out his bottom lip. "But you haven't even tried a tarot card reading."

She points at her with one of her claws. "No. We're done. Josh, come on." The chair scuffs the floor when it slides back. She stands there, and Josh still sits. " _Josh_ ," she whispers.

Josh holds out his hand. It's steady. "Do me."

Before Tyler can take Josh's hand, she smacks it, and Josh stuffs the hand into his armpit. The wince is unmistakable, and the flinch that follows from her pointing at him is able to be seen by a couple of teens standing outside Bath & Body Works. "You're going to have the same awful experience as me because this nut job has nothing better to do than make other people as miserable as he is. You know I'm right, Josh. Don't make that face at me."

"Maybe you, you, you gave him the wrong hand," Josh reasons, trying to sate her as he eases his hand from his armpit.

Tyler thinks his tights are the same color as Josh's hair. He thinks this is partly why he's trying to be nice now. "He's right. It's… it's different with non-dominant hands and if you're female and—"

"See," Josh says, and then repeats it quieter.

Her face does not soften. As an act of defiance, with his eyes connected to hers, Josh straightens his arm, tilts back his wrist, and presents his palm to Tyler. And as he's staring at her, he tells Tyler, "Do my heart line."

And without daring to stare at her—because Josh is staring enough for the pair of them—Tyler wraps his fingers around Josh's and pulls a leg into the chair with him. The bell at the tips of his toes cuts into the side of his thigh, but that's the least of Tyler's concerns as he lowers his head to get a better look at Josh's palm.

Despite the mall itself being well-lit, inside his tent, Tyler has to read by the light from a lava lamp. He stammers when he reveals, "I can't really tell the exact length."

She scoffs. Still standing by the entrance of Tyler's kiosk, she crosses her arms over her chest, hip cocked, and spits, " _Josh_."

Tyler fights to say what he wants to say. His grip on Josh's fingers tightens only slightly—just enough for Josh to curl his fingers and quietly reassure Tyler. "It's okay," Josh murmurs. "What does it say?"

"Where the line ends is… fuzzy, but the line is long."

"And what does that mean?" Josh's friend says, mocking. She begins to tap her foot.

Pressing his teeth into his bottom lip, Tyler says, "Uh." He says, "It means love, you know… like, an _abundance_ of it."

As soon as "abun-" leaves his chapped lips, the woman grabs Josh's arm and heaves Josh from the chair. "That's it," she says, and nothing else. "That's it. That's it. _That's it._ "

His bottom lip now stuck out in a pout, Tyler sets his elbows on the table. "Going so soon? You haven't gotten a tarot card reading yet."

But they're gone—but not before Josh flashes a cheeky smile to Tyler and a wink. _A wink_ —Tyler nearly faints. He thinks, if he were to faint, it would be peaceful.

His head hurts so damn bad. The pain causes him to shake, to tremble gently, and he grabs his bottle of lotion and squeezes more onto his hands.

"Fifteen more minutes," he tells himself, and returns his phone to the table in front of him.

*

He can't help but think he's met Josh somewhere before.

*

In a similar garb while also wearing a frown, Mark steps into Tyler's makeshift kiosk and asks, "How many people came in today?"

It's Tyler's first day on the job for the Christmas season. Between waving at children and helping them into Santa's lap, Tyler only finds relief in the form of his break—and even then, it's as stressful as standing outside lines and smiling until the blush on his cheeks subscribes to remnants of pain rather than manufactured happiness. It's his first day on the job, and Mark accompanied him to Walmart that morning to buy supplies for their brilliant idea of setting up a kiosk. The _real_ kiosk isn't here yet; Tyler is supposed to sit and sell ornaments.

He isn't supposed to have his nose stuck in his phone, fingers flicking through webpage after webpage on guides on how to read palms and tarot cards. He's supposed to stand outside lines and wave at children. He's supposed to help them onto Santa's lap and smile.

Mark says, "Happy Birthday, too. I mean… Merry Birthday."

Tyler rolls his eyes.

Mark grins. "So, how many people?"

Neither Mark nor Tyler cringe at the jingling bells on Tyler's toes when he stands to stretch his legs and pop his back. They're used to this. They've been Santa's helpers since they were teenagers with bad facial hair and acne. The outfits never go out of style; they only become better at applying makeup. Mark doesn't like doing it, and Tyler has steady hands.

"A few," Tyler says.

"More than a few," Mark says.

Tyler gasps, faux surprise. " _How did you know that?_ "

Mark shoves Tyler from the kiosk and closes the tent.

*

"What do you want for Christmas, little girl?" Michael asks, hearty, eyelashes flaked with the same mascara tube tucked into the pouch at Tyler's side. Tyler's digging into the pouch now, crouching in front of a girl with her hands in fists and her face hidden in her mother's pea coat. Her other mom offers Tyler a sympathetic smile, but Tyler shuffles closer, arm outstretched to show the young girl a candy cane in his palm.

"Here," Tyler says, "you can have this, okay? A sweet girl like yourself deserves sweet things."

A sliver of her face peeks from around the coat's hem. Her fingers uncurl, but her arms hang limply at her sides, unsure of Tyler and Michael before her. Michael sits patiently, his boots spit-shined and his costume fuzzy and shedding by the hour.

"Lemme tell you a secret." Tyler edges closer, the girl unwavering and safe from danger due to her mother's legs. "Do you want to hear a secret?" Tyler whispers, only moving forward at her interest piquing. She stares with a careful gaze, raising her hands to stuff into the pockets of her raincoat. She wears boots too big for her feet and a bonnet matching the doll in her mother's arms. The nod she gives Tyler makes the bonnet slide on her head. Tyler sets it right and tells her, "The beard's fake."

She giggles.

Tyler holds up the candy cane.

She takes it with soon-to-be sticky fingers and lets her moms lead her to Santa.

From behind Tyler, Mark hisses, "Fuck you."

When Tyler returns to standing, Mark pokes him in the back. He speaks with accusation. "How are you so good with them? I try to give a kid candy, and someone calls mall security on me."

"Kids like me," Tyler says, "because I have a baby face."

Mark watches Tyler tie the drawstring of the bag on his hip, two loops and a delicate bow. With a shake of his head and crossing his arms over his chest, he says, "What did you want to do when we get off? Gotta do something for your birthday." Mark drops his arms. Tyler had been about to tell him to open himself up. They have to be open, body language, smiles, and all. Santa, no matter who plays him, often frightens the children at first. Santa's helpers need to prod them from their shells and out from their parents' knees. Tyler has candy and a baby face. Mark has Tyler.

Michael whispers something into the little girl's ear, which makes her laugh. She's able to leave his lap all by herself. Upon stepping down, she unwraps the candy cane, sticks the end in the gap between molars and left cheek, and grabs each of her moms' hands. They swing arms and start toward the toy store.

Tyler walks toward the line again.

"Michael can drive us anywhere," Mark reasons.

"Ho, ho, ho," Michael says, patting his stomach.

Pretending not to hear the words for the moment, Tyler immediately drops to be level with a toddler learning to stand on his own—and with a hand on the pant leg of his father. Tyler smiles at him and slowly reaches forward to flick the string hanging from his hat, earning him a giggle and the bobble at the top of the tot's head to shake back and forth. "Are you excited for Christmas, little one?" Tyler doesn't need candy for him. He takes Tyler's hand without even so much a reassuring glance from his dad. Tyler does glance, though. He always needs permission before lifting children who are not his, and this father bends easily. It's Christmastime. The air is full of trust and cheer.

And this father, he's as surprised to see Tyler as Tyler is to see him—because it's _Josh_.

Now wrapped in a heavier coat with a beanie to hide his fire-red hair, Josh stands in front of Tyler and helps him with the toddler, touching the child's back and reminding him that it's okay, even if he isn't paying attention to Josh. The child is enticed by the Christmas tree behind Michael's chair. Tyler laughs at this, saying, "It's _enormous_ , isn't it?" The toddler agrees by stuffing several of his fingers into his mouth.

"You're good with them," Josh notes, suddenly bashful as he digs the toe of his tennis shoe into the tile flooring.

"Well, yeah, I have candy." Tyler bounces the kid on his hip, more smiles for him to cherish surfacing.

"A cute smile doesn't hurt."

This time, Tyler's smile is immediate. He switches to rest the child on his other hip, hiding behind the bobble hat. "Y-yeah?"

"Oh, yeah." Josh smiles now. It's as if, hours before, he wasn't getting chastised for showing an interest in palmistry. Tyler smiles more, but it's still hidden behind the child's bobble hat. Josh laughs anyway.

Michael takes over as elegantly as a man sitting on his ass all day can. Accustomed to the pins-and-needles feeling of falling-asleep legs, Michael's role as Santa is still fairly new. This is his third year as Kris Kringle, and his first year of avoiding a small child from pissing on him during opening day.

At the new toddler on his lap, Michael looks to Tyler, eyebrows raising, and Tyler can only smile his rehearsed customer-service smile. _Good luck_ , that smile says, along with some choice words Tyler feels guilty for even thinking in front of a kid. He recovers quickly, sliding backwards to the line, leaving Mark by his lonesome once Michael asks the toddler what he would like for Christmas this year.

"So," Tyler says, "come here often?"

Josh's shoulders sag in a form of defeat. An exhausted sigh leaves his parted lips. "Oh, _God_ ," he whispers. Tyler stops himself from bursting out into a fit of giggles right there as Josh struggles to look for the right words. "I, I—look, I told my brother I really couldn't do this, but he was, like, 'Josh, please.' And, like, I'm only here so he and his partner can go shopping. I'm totally not here because I—it's not like I grabbed some kid just so I can—I, I mean—"

"Nephew, then." Tyler nods his head, Josh copying the motion. Despite the initial want to laugh until his lungs gave out, Tyler finds himself touching Josh's arm and patting it. Reassurance mostly, Tyler tells himself that's what it is, even when his thumb goes in circles and Josh not-so nonchalantly shuffles closer.

"Yeah, he's my nephew. Not some… not some random kid."

As a parting gesture, Tyler offers Josh another smile, a softer one this time, much different from the one he gives Josh's nephew and Michael. Face reverted to support the grin and crinkled-up eyes, Tyler speaks to the toddler with a quiet tone. "Did you tell Santa all the things you want this year?" Tyler catches Michael's eye, a smirk hiding behind the fake beard he tries to adjust with a delicate pull to the strings behind his ears. Right now, staring at Tyler, Michael is nothing but agony, and Tyler has to stop himself from sticking out his tongue, from laughing, from telling Michael, "I'm right there with you."

In an attempt to conceal one of the biggest smiles Tyler has seen today, the child chews on his fingers and squints his eyes. Innocent and joyful, Tyler forgets Michael's pain. He turns to smile at the child and lift him from Michael's lap to return him to Josh. Josh waits, arms already outstretched. There's light behind his eyes, almost playful. Tyler doesn't miss the way his hands linger on Tyler's skin.

"Maybe you won't have as much luck with the next one," Josh observes, the set of twins behind them fighting to stand still.

"I'll let my friend handle them." Tyler lowers his head to give a yank on the drawstring pouch at his hip. The child is much too young for candy, but Tyler still pulls out a candy cane for Josh. Tyler passes it over with a smile, and Josh smiles, too. His teeth are white. He's wearing a forest-green scarf.

Josh says, "Thank you," and Tyler says, "You're welcome."

"Will you be here tomorrow?" asks Josh, then, sudden, and moves out of the line for Mark to step in and coax the twins from their parents. Tyler can feel Mark's eyes on him. He can't tell if they're happy or not.

Tyler crosses his arms over his chest, improper for work, but proper for himself. He feels himself grow smaller, too, shrinking into his skeleton as he stares at Josh with an inability to read anything from his face. It's unusual. Tyler loathes himself at the moment. "I, uh, yeah. I'll be working tomorrow. Every day, actually, until Christmas Eve."

"I meant, like…" Josh licks his lips. He rolls his eyes, more at himself than Tyler. "Like, will you be in that… booth thing?"

Only a fool wouldn't understand the look of anticipation and hope in Josh's eyes. "Yeah, I will be." Tyler's fingers curl around his biceps. His thumbs dig into his white-and-green-striped sleeves. He can't remember the exact age of these uniforms. "Why? Do you want a…?"

Red-faced, Josh says, "A tarot card reading, if… if you still do those."

"I'll do them until I don't." Tyler drops his hand to his hip again, his fingers catching on the sharp plastic edges of the candy canes in his pouch. He fishes out a second one and hands it to Josh.

Josh's nephew takes it. He waves it like a baton and blows bubbles.

Josh smiles.

Tyler coos, "When I was… a young boy…"

Josh says, "Oh, my God." He says, "I'll see you tomorrow."

And Mark, when Tyler comes back over to stand in the designated greeting area, he pokes Tyler in the side and goes, "What the hell do you want to do for your birthday, dude?" His fingers are cold.

Tyler squirms. "Nothing too much." The inside of his cheek raw from his molars and his eyes narrowed at the back of Josh's head, Tyler says, "Maybe… maybe we can just grab some tacos. I need to… catch up on my tarot card reading." He looks away from the curls at the nape of Josh's neck.

Mark can only express excitement for Tyler's endeavors provoking people, and he slowly begins to grin and wiggle his eyebrows. " _Just_ catch up on your tarot cards?"

The blush across Tyler's cheeks is indistinguishable from the makeup on his cheeks. He uses what energy he has left to count the remaining candy canes in his pouch.

"I get it," Mark says. "I'm sorry."

Tyler counts to seven.

*

Ripping the beard from his face, Michael shoves his palm into Tyler's nose and goes, "What does it say?"

Barely able to laugh with sound, Tyler smacks the side of his wrist into Michael's hand. "It says, 'Get out of my face before I bite.'"

Michael tuts. "That doesn't sound right, Tyler."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Michael. When did you become a palm reader?" Tyler pulls the cap from his head, the bell at the top obnoxious and loud. The chill outside is unbearable for Tyler's ears and bird-nest hair, but he neglected to grab a hat made for the temperature this morning on his way to Michael's car.

"And… don't say what I know you're going to say right now," Tyler adds.

"Jesus, you really are psychic." Michael shakes his head and rubs the blush from his cheeks. They turn redder than before, the friction and cold air nipping at his skin hard enough makeup remover might not work completely.

Tyler holds the bell at the top of his hat in his fist and slides his arms across his chest. He can still feel the oversized buttons under the zipper of his coat.

"I think the ornaments are supposed to arrive next week sometime," Michael says, "so you don't have to piss people off for that much longer on your break."

Michael was the one to suggest Tyler using his time off to get on people's nerves. He just didn't know what Tyler could do exactly.

Mark appeared, then, talking of plans for Tyler's birthday, which made Tyler spin on his toes and turn his attention to the nearest novel on the shelf in front of him. They were in Walmart, too early for even the early birds, and Tyler reached forward and dragged his fingertip across the pages of a cheap sketchbook. He didn't mean to gasp, but he gasped, and Michael said, "Whoa," and Tyler widened his eyes and whispered, "I have an idea."

It came to him on a whim—or so he tells himself. It came to him as he watched the blood from the papercut slide down his finger and fill the cracks of his palm. A shock almost, the sight reminded him of sitting at the kitchen table with his siblings, bent over their palms and reading the lines before them by candlelight. Tyler remembered touching the candle once and the hot red wax sliding down his finger until it collected and formed to his heart line. The scream was belated. When his sister reached over to soothe the pain, their mother walked in, flipped on the lights, and scolded them all for practicing witchcraft.

But as soon as his mother went to bed, the children came together, flashlights now, and wielding the ability to muffle any possible screams with pillows.

Tyler later learned his mom was joking when it came to accusing her children of witchcraft. She revealed it was due to her fear of her children catching on fire. "You shouldn't be handling lighters at your age," she would say, but there was an edge to her voice; Tyler didn't believe her entirely.

In the middle of Walmart, removing the blood from his palm with a swipe of his tongue, Tyler told Michael and Mark, " _I know what I can do_."

Birthday plans were in the farthest part of Mark's and Michael's minds. They instead spoke excitedly of Tyler's future conquests while they gathered the necessary supplies—and the sketchbook Tyler's blood stained. Tyler thought he'd gotten out of birthday talk, until Mark brought it up again.

Michael speaks of the birthday plans now. "Wanna hang at my place afterward? Or d'ya just wanna eat and call it a night?"

Before Tyler can reply, Mark says, "We're going to get _fucked up_."

Tyler can't complain.

They pile into Michael's car and sing along to the Christmas songs on the radio.

*

Getting "fucked up" consists of them shoving tacos down their throats, swallowing it all down with cheap champagne—or cinnamon tea, in Tyler's case—and climbing into Michael's bed to watch anime until they're unable to stay awake. Tyler feels fuzzy. Michael is spooning him, talking in his sleep, wishing Tyler a happy birthday over and over, and Tyler pats Michael's arm and continues scrolling on his phone, absorbing all he can about tarot cards. He doesn't want to disappoint Josh tomorrow.

*

In the morning, Michael and Mark nurse hangovers, and Tyler fixes a breakfast of frozen waffles. While Michael and Mark nod off at the table, Tyler brushes dry shampoo through their hair, reapplies their rosy cheeks and snowy eyelashes and eyebrows, and squeezes an extra bit of glue onto Mark's elf ear prosthetics. They're both out of it, seemingly oblivious to Tyler's actions, until Tyler says, "I can drive!" and Michael rises, points a finger at Tyler, and tells him, "There's no way in hell I'm letting you drive my car."

So, Tyler calls shotgun, and all is well.

When they get to the mall, Michael sits on that golden throne with a pillow tucked in his suit and the fake beard scratching his face, Mark tightens the belt on his uniform, and Tyler counts the candy canes in the pouch on his hip.

Mark leans in to whisper to Tyler, "You're still going to wear that party hat for the rest of the day."

Tyler closes his eyes.

Mark digs his elbow into Tyler's ribs. " _Yeah_ , we're not too hungover to remember."

Begrudgingly, Tyler dons the traditional rainbow-striped party hat Mark, Michael, and he force each other to wear on the day after their birthday. It was part of the joke, to have strangers come up to them and go, "Oh, is it your birthday?" and for one of them to respond with a flat out, "No." Sometimes, they would get an awkward "Oh!" and then, other times, they were still given birthday wishes. Mostly, though, they'd be stared at with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. If this happened, they would need to smile as politely and as widely as possible. For Tyler, this was easy.

It was the parents who liked to ask if it was Tyler's birthday. The kids didn't care. They saw the hat with the rainbow and the tinsel around the edges and just assumed it was part of the elf costume. Today is much the same.

On his break, Tyler hides out in his kiosk, phone in front of him and scribbling down all he can absorb about his week-long adventure to piss people off with everything they didn't want to hear—except Josh, of course.

"Witchcraft," his mom once said. She knew it wasn't witchcraft—or, at least, the witchcraft many of their neighbors deemed _evil_. She gave Tyler his first tarot card deck for his birthday that same year she caught her children reading their palms by candlelight. He was fourteen years old, two years away from his initial venture into mall Santa's domain.

"Your first deck should always be given to you," she said. "This one was my father's. I think it's time I passed it on to you." She covered his hands with his, kissed his forehead. "Treat it well, and the universe will give that energy back to you."

And she gave his forehead another kiss, then the crown of his head. She said nothing, but Tyler could feel _something_ nestling in his bones, like a warm hug he never wanted to end. Late at night, when he can't sleep and Mark's snores fill the halls of their tiny apartment, he thinks about that warmth and plucks through his tarot cards, not so much reading them, but admiring the artwork along the cardstock—vintage, saturated colors, full of life despite it all. That warmth grows to a flame that dances over his fingertips, burning so low and so sweet it smells as sharp as fresh gingerbread from the oven.

He's shuffling through these cards now, absently, still mindful of the fraying edges, as he continues to flick down webpages on his phone and listing every possible meaning for the cards in the notebook he stained with his own blood. It's been a while since he's performed readings, and most of the shoppers who stop at his tent are too busy for one. They just want their palms read—"Here," they would say, dominant hand out while their other taps on social media app after social media app. And afterward, they'd widen their eyes and go, " _How did you know that?_ "

Tyler would smile.

The first person to enter his tent this afternoon is Josh. He's wearing that green scarf again, his red hair uncovered and looking brighter than yesterday. As a greeting, Tyler asks, "Did you redye your hair?"

Josh touches his chest. "I—yeah! Yeah, I did! Do you like it?"

Tyler smiles now, legs swinging in his seat, the bells on his shoes chiming. "Yeah, it looks cool. Are you having a good day so far?"

Taking the seat across from Tyler, Josh sets his phone on the table, face up, and rubs his fingers into his eyes. "It's fine, I guess. Like, I'm on my lunch break."

"Me, too," Tyler says, clicking the pen in his hand. "Where do you work?"

"Just the gym. I'm a personal trainer. Not, like, that makes me sound like a jerk; I box and all that. I help people out with that… and stuff." Josh lowers his head, hands dropping in his lap. His shoulders drop, his mood drops, and Tyler feels his face dropping with it.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No," Josh says suddenly, and shakes his head. He pats the table. "I'm here. Are you still doing, uh, tarot card readings?"

The string on Tyler's party hat digs into his chin. He scratches, pulls. "We can do a short one, if someone's… keeping you," he says, sticking his pen into his notebook and grabbing the deck of cards. He shuffles, eyes on Josh. Josh is still looking down, still shaking his head. When his head-shaking turns into nods, his eyes roll up to Tyler, and Tyler smiles. "I'll do a short one, okay? It'll be a more generalized reading. Nothing too deep to ruin your day."

Josh chews on his lip. He nods again. He scoots closer.

From the corner of his eye, Tyler spots a crowd around his tent. He swears he sees the woman from yesterday, the one who was with Josh. He can't be for certain, but it would make sense why Josh is acting like this. Tyler tries not to draw attention to it.

Tucking his legs underneath him, Tyler fans out the cards. He holds them like this is a card game between children rather than a tarot card reading. "Pick six," he tells Josh, "and spread them out in front of you, one right after the other."

Without any thought, Josh chooses six cards and does as instructed to them. Tyler slides the deck back together and places them by his phone, by his lava lamp. He cracks his knuckles.

Josh smiles.

Tyler blinks. He leans forward, into Josh's space, and doesn't miss the way someone from the crowd crosses their arms over their chest. _Good_ , Tyler thinks, lightly poking the first card in Josh's lineup. "Flip this over for me," Tyler says. "This will reveal how you feel about yourself."

When Josh does, he says, "Okay."

"The Star!" Tyler claps his hands. "Oh, yes!"

Josh laughs. "What does it mean? I'm a star?"

Tyler points at Josh. "Not quite." He consults his notebook, just in case, and then says, "Have a little hope. Everything is going as well as they can go right now, but if you see an opportunity in the future, such as a new job or a chance to travel or possibly a new love affair, don't hold yourself back."

Quiet, Josh begins to chew on his lip some more. He flips over the next card.

"This will reveal what you want most right now, and you have selected the Hierophant. You want someone you can trust again—someone who won't let you down again."

Still chewing, still quiet, Josh goes on to the next card.

Tyler moves right along, too. "Your fears," he says, glancing down at his notebook. His handwriting is difficult to make out by the light of the red lava lamp. He curses himself for wanting to keep the Christmas aesthetic in this shabby little tent. "Well, basically, you're uneasy, insecure, and you know something just doesn't feel right."

Josh snorts.

"Your next card"—Tyler reaches across the table to show off the fourth card—"is what's going for you! And you've chosen _Justice_! You're going to enter a period of good luck! Everything will become clear soon. Karma is on your side." Before Josh can comment, Tyler goes on to the next card. "This is what's going against you and—"

"Everything?" Josh guesses.

Tyler hiccups. "No—the Chariot! It means the conflicts in your life will end in victory, so don't give up even if you really want to give up."

In a rush to get to the last card first, Tyler yanks at the white tablecloth and Josh ends up kicking a table leg. They both gasp, and they both ask the other, "Are you okay?" and they both answer, "I'm okay."

Clearing his throat, Tyler says, "Okay, your last card is the Moon."

"Okay."

"This is a good omen."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!" Tyler bangs his fist against the table. "Just… _have a little faith_ everything will turn out exactly how it's supposed to!"

"All of these sounds the same."

"That's not my fault."

Josh frowns. "So, like… is that all they say?" One by one, Josh picks up each card and inspects it. The tip of his nose touches the cards, eyes squinting to try to see what's past each piece of old paper.

"I summarized, mostly, but they do say a lot regardless. You just have to ask the right question."

"Will I ever be happy again?" whispers Josh.

Taking the deck of cards, Tyler reinserts the cards from Josh's previous reading and shuffles. Then, he presents the deck to Josh. "Choose a card."

And, again, without thinking, Josh slips a card from the deck and lays it on the table.

Tyler looks. Josh doesn't.

Tyler says, "Judgement. Yes. You will be happy again."

The positive answer does nothing to brighten Josh's mood. When he stands up from the table and returns his phone into his coat pocket, his voice is slow, low, as he says, "Thank you." Under his breath, he adds, "I like your hat." He gestures to his head, like Tyler wouldn't know.

Tyler does a gesture of his own before pulling at the string again. "It was my birthday yesterday."

Josh smiles. "I hope you had a good birthday, Tyler."

And he leaves.

Tyler watches someone from the crowd outside grab Josh's arm and _tug_. It's the woman—of course it is. She's pulling on Josh, him and her disappearing in the crowd, and Tyler watches them and feels empty inside.

No one else enters his tent for the duration of his lunch break.

*

Mark asks, "So, how many people came in today?"

Tyler replies, "I can't do this anymore."

Mark simply takes the party hat from Tyler's head and replaces it with the green cap with the bell at the top. "Come on," he says.

Tyler does so reluctantly.

*

Tyler is thankful the blush on his face makes him more joyful. The kids continue to smile and continue to gravitate toward him. They hold his hand. They want hugs. They want candy canes.

This is why Tyler keeps agreeing to be one of Santa's Little Helpers every year.

And when Michael finally gets a child who pisses on his lap upon seeing his holly-jolly face, Tyler forgets about Josh, if only for the remainder of the day.

*

But at night, in Tyler's dreams, Josh is there, crying, screaming, his red hair the texture of oil, and Tyler can't avoid him.

Tyler tries to tell himself he doesn't know why Josh is here. Josh isn't important. Josh is nobody.

And then, Josh leans in close with tears down his cheeks and tells Tyler, "I will never be happy again because of you."

Sometime during the night, Tyler has shoved himself from the bed. He wakes to all his blankets on the floor, him tangled within them and Mark standing over him. Michael is in the doorway. He and Mark stare at Tyler, glance at each other. They do not speak.

Michael approaches the twister on the floor. Tyler watches, eyes on Michael's feet. He doesn't want to move, but Michael doesn't try to move him; Michael lies down next to him, and after a moment, Mark joins them.

Shaking, Tyler detaches from the blankets and spreads them out, covering himself and his friends. He shares what he can, and then some. Even sober, Michael spoons Tyler, and Tyler uses Mark for a pillow. He whispers, "I'm such an asshole."

Michael says, "I mean…"

Mark says, "Yeah, you are."

Tyler says, "I'm an asshole _and_ a little bitch."

Michael says, "Okay, yeah."

Mark says, "Yeah, definitely."

Josh is still in Tyler's dreams. He's not crying, not screaming. He's wearing that forest-green scarf and a bright smile. His hair is silk. Tyler touches it in his dreams. Josh kisses Tyler's wrist in his dreams.

He wakes alone in his bed, the smell of eggs and slightly burnt toast wafting into his room. His head feels heavy as it rests on his pillow, the case of it stained with drool and faded with age. As he rolls onto his stomach, he places his hand over Pikachu's glowing face. One at a time, he curls his fingers into his palm.

*

On his break, he opens the tent and props his feet up on the table. He sings along to the Christmas songs playing throughout the mall, ceasing only when someone pops inside to ask for a palm reading and the odd tarot card reading.

Tyler gets three compliments about the softness of his hands. In between customers, he rubs in peppermint lotion and directs whoever he can to the Bath & Body Works near his kiosk. He ignores his headache. It's a time-keeping device.

Many of the people leave satisfied and pressure Tyler into accepting payment of some kind. Tyler insists he doesn't need the money, but he ends up pocketing the five-dollar bills all the same. The sign outside says "free" for a reason; most of the watered-down versions of his readings come from the internet anyway—a free source. He understands the credibility an actual human face can provide for them, too, and his face must be the most credible of them all for him to actually be able to recognize a small fraction of faces who dart in here whenever they have a scrap of free time. "Please," Tyler wants to tell them. "This is my gift to you—"

The sign at the front of his tent tips over, rattling against the floor. No heads turn to look, save for Tyler's own. Shoppers rush past with arms decorated with different-colored shopping bags and ice-cold drinks in their hands. Tyler pushes himself to his feet. Every step is punctuated with the chime of the huge bells at the toe of his boots, slow and measured.

As he's bending at the knee to pick up the sign, Josh slides in front of him.

Tyler scurries backward, the bell chimes now sharp and panicked, like a cat running away after getting caught in something it shouldn't be in. Tyler backs up until he's somehow hopped back onto the fold-out table with his lava lamp and notebook, legs close to his chest and his arms stretched out in front of him. His fingers are straight, wrists straight, everything too straight and rigid in preparation to strike Josh karate-style if Josh so much as gets close to him.

But Josh is… Josh is picking up the sign, propping it back up, and turning to Tyler to ask, "How's your day going?"

Feeling very foolish, Tyler inches his arms down and allows his legs to instead hang off the table. "My day?" He sighs, shaking his head. "It's been… okay…" He wonders if Josh had flipped the sign around outside, if there's just a blank whiteboard facing the shoppers. Tyler can see the hint of legs and feet in their holiday frenzy, unfazed. He swallows. "So, how's your day going?"

Bathed in the red glow of the lava lamp, Josh approaches Tyler and places a hand on the tabletop. Upon first glance, Tyler assumes this is done out of rage, bunching the white tablecloth in his fist, but then Tyler realizes it's done from anxiety, almost absently, and he chews on his lip as Josh utters a quiet, "Fine."

"You don't look fine."

"You don't either."

"Are you telling me I need to touch up my makeup?"

Josh stares at him.

Tyler clears his throat. "I'm, um, _sorry_ for giving you that reading yesterday. I had a nightmare about it last night, and then I had this weird happy dream after that, and that threw me off even more, but I'm—"

"Tyler—"

"I'm—like, I'm sorry for giving you that reading. My mom, she—I'm not supposed to do harm when I give my readings, and I'm scared that—"

Josh shuffles closer and places his hand on Tyler's chest. He fiddles with an oversized button, flicks it. "How much longer do you have for your break?"

Somehow, Tyler's able to bring himself to check the time on his phone while everything else in his body is fixed on the hand that was on his chest. It was warm. _It was warm_.

"About thirty minutes," Tyler says. "I mean, a little less, but—"

"Come with me," Josh says. "Are you hungry?"

Tyler isn't hungry, but he smiles and follows Josh to the food court.

*

Unlike the rest of the shopping mall, the food court offers solace in the form of space and room to breathe. Despite this, it feels as though Josh is too close to Tyler, even if they sit across from each other at this table that was hastily wiped moments before they sat down with their food. The paper holding Tyler's pretzel gets soaked within minutes; Tyler unfolds napkins to stick underneath, knowing this is more for his peace of mind than any safety measure. For all he knows, there's just boiled water in those spray bottles.

"So," Josh starts, "your mom taught you how to read tarot cards?"

Tyler swallows a gulp of his cherry slushie. "I mean, not _really_ —I mean, like, the foundations, I guess? I mostly just taught myself from… the internet." He shuts his eyes, shakes his head. "Not even the foundations, really—just, like… she gave me the tarot card deck. That's pretty much _it_."

"I still think that's pretty cool." Josh pokes at his cup of pretzel bites, sprinkled with salt that drops off as soon as he plucks a ball from the Styrofoam cup. "I would count that as _foundations_ , y'know? She gave you the deck. That's about as foundational as it gets, I think."

Sneaking a glance at Josh, Tyler mumbles, "Yeah." He watches Josh unfold a napkin of his own to set his pretzel bites on, in a line up, like he's trying to decide which ones are the best ones to eat first. There are six of them lined up, and Tyler grabs at his slushie again and stuffs the straw into his cheek. He chews on the red plastic. "Why are you here?" he asks Josh.

Josh, blinking, looks at Tyler. Then, he laughs, gives his own head a shake. "What? I, like—can't I want to share a meal with a friend?"

Tyler stares at their respective meals—his half-eaten pretzel, his dregs of slushie, Josh's unopened bottle of Pepsi, the six pretzel bites lined up on that napkin. It's a poor meal, Tyler knows, but it's a meal, sure, and he never has the chance to have many of those. He knows charging for his readings would help the chances of him scrubbing two coins together. Lord knows the barely-above-minimum-wage he, Mark, and Michael are making now is hardly enough to stay afloat. They go through this cycle every year. Come January, Mark and Tyler will be rifling through more temporary positions at the nearest department store, most likely at this very mall. Michael's even started to entertain the idea of moving in with Mark and Tyler permanently, just to help them pay the bills so they have a little extra spending money left over, but Tyler knows Michael wouldn't want to leave the stability he has under his parents' roof. Tyler doesn't blame him. He wouldn't want to be without his parents either.

This—what he and Josh are doing—Tyler doesn't think this is done out of pity. If their circumstances were different, he'd believe Josh was genuine about wanting to spend time with Tyler as friends.

He says, "I'd rather not be labeled a homewrecker."

Josh's eyes are wide and wet around the edges. He covers his mouth with both hands, then runs them up to hide his eyes. "Oh, God, you thought I was _with her_."

Tyler taps the side of his drink with his thumb. "Wait—you're _not_ with her?"

"No, we're just friends." Josh looks at Tyler through the cracks in his fingers. "We tried dating once, but it didn't work out. We function better as friends. And _you_ —"

" _Me_ —"

" _Shit_." Josh's hands and head drop. Tyler watches Josh shake his head. His curls are loose. They wave.

"You're okay," he tells Josh. "You're more than okay."

Josh raises his head, and then… he slowly smiles. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Tyler smiles, too. His cheeks burn from it, from the exertion it takes to smile, and Tyler hates that, hates the way it feels, so when Josh busies himself with selecting his pretzel bite, Tyler lets his face fall.

And when Josh takes a napkin, procures an ink pen, and jots down his number for Tyler, Tyler lets his heart fall straight down to his stomach.

*

 _I think you make a pretty elf_ , Josh writes on the napkin. He's drawn a snowman. It's grinning. It looks like him.

Tyler folds up the napkin and sticks it in the pouch on his hip, nestled in with the candy canes.

Mark sees this, and he pats Tyler's back as he chokes back an exaggerated sob. "Dating an artist. I'm so proud of you."

"Shut up."

Mark does.

Michael dozes in his chair.

*

Late at night, Tyler examines his palm in the light of the moon. He can't find anything different, but he knows if he believes there's a change in his life, then the differences will appear before him. "We're always changing," his mother told him. "That means our palms change, too."

"Isn't that like an out?" Tyler fired back, spitfire in his teenage ways. "If we just tell them our palms change, that our futures are always changing, then how can they believe us when we give them a reading?"

"Because," she said, "it's accurate in that given moment."

*

With the steam from the shower fogging the mirror, Tyler transfers Josh's phone number from the napkin to his phone. The humidity causes the napkin to wilt in Tyler's hands. He tries not to think about what that means, if it means anything at all. Even as a kid, he searched for meaning in seemingly meaningless things. He thinks he got it from his mother. She bred that behavior, encouraged it. It was fun that way, going about life and making theories that may not hold stake in the world. It was harmless.

It used to be harmless.

*

Tyler doesn't text Josh.

*

And Josh doesn't pop in for another reading.

And Tyler doesn't text Josh.

*

The new kiosk arrives on the day after Mark's birthday. Tyler declares this is his present to Mark, who only looks slightly annoyed as he struggles to set down the cardboard boxes of ceramic ornaments without knocking around the contents too much, all the while wearing that rainbow-striped party hat. "Piss off," he directs to Tyler, who painstakingly attempts to keep his lava lamp on display somewhere nearby while balancing a to-go cup of cinnamon tea on his palm. He made the brew before work, needed it to sustain him throughout the day, even if its healing properties lasted for an hour. The drink has never failed him yet.

"You can do the first one," Tyler says over his shoulder, after placing the lamp on the kiosk's desk, in the middle of the display. He knows he'll end up taking the lamp home with him after his shift tonight, but he snaps it on and bathes the area in a cherry-red glow. Nearby customers turn their heads, but they carry on walking. A child, swinging from their dad's hand, nearly runs into the body lotion display over at Bath & Body Works—just another day.

Mark considers Tyler's offer. "Okay."

The first ornament—a pair of snowmen holding signs, ready for names to be meticulously printed upon them—slides in front of Mark as soon he makes himself comfortable on the barstool behind the desk. Tyler brings it to him, along with a smile and his chin on his hands. "I would like this one, please," he says. "Could you write 'Tyler' and 'Mark' on the signs? I think my roommate would _love_ this hanging on our tree."

"Does your roommate hate you?" Mark asks, as he uncaps a fine-point Sharpie.

"Oh, gosh, I hope not."

Mark's hand is delicate. "Well, I hope he doesn't kick you out."

"He wouldn't do that," Tyler says. "I keep our tea cabinet stocked."

"Does your roommate even like tea?"

"No."

Mark fans the ink with sides of his fingers, quick motions that make Tyler's eyes hurt from watching them sweep back and forth so swiftly. He attempts to look past them, at the snowmen with their matching black hats and striped scarves, waving with their red mittens.

"Hey, can I talk to you for a sec?"

Tyler knows that voice, and he shuts his eyes at that voice. In front of him, Mark snickers and taps Tyler's knee under the desk. And Tyler, slowly drawing in a breath, pushes himself from the desk to face Josh head on—and Josh, he's dressed in layers, that big coat and the green scarf and the beanie pulled on his head to hide his red mohawk. Tyler's stomach lurches at the sight. He can't say hi, can't even say anything; he steps away from the kiosk, starts to walk. Josh follows at his heels.

"What's up?" Tyler asks, trying to be nonchalant, but he's shaking so hard he can hear his tea sloshing around in his cup. He steadies his hand with the other, holds his wrist, and hopes it doesn't betray his nerves.

"I'm sorry for coming on too strong," Josh says. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't scare me."

"Oh. That's good."

How can Tyler tell Josh he's scared himself, without Josh's influence? He's overthinking, overwhelming himself with unknowns—and his head hurts, but when he stares at Josh, maybe the headache begins to go away. He wonders if that's the tea doing its job.

Tyler stops walking when they reach Starbucks. The smell of peppermint and the tell-tale signs of coffee settles his weight to his feet, firm on the ground. "It's complicated," he tells Josh. "This time of year… I don't do well. Can we leave it at that?" And before Josh can retort, Tyler says, "I _do_ like you, Josh. I'm just… I don't…"

Josh waits, eyes big, chewing on the corner of his lip. He nudges Tyler, an elbow against his elbow. "We don't have to, like—we can just _be friends_ for now—until you're ready."

"No, that isn't—that isn't what I'm trying to say."

"What _are_ you trying to say?"

Tyler looks down at his tea, moves it around a bit. "I wish I knew."

They stand there together, Tyler with his tea, Josh with his eyes burning holes into the tarnished bell at the top of Tyler's hat. And as they stand there, Tyler listens to the bustle of holiday shopping around him—the laughter, the screaming children, the gossip between old high-school friends catching up as they wait for a barista to call their name. And in this bustle of holiday shopping, Josh moves on him—hugging him in front of Starbucks and not caring who sees it.

Tyler doesn't care either—but he's mindful of his drink, so he loops a single arm around Josh's torso and presses his chin to Josh's shoulder. He doesn't mean to squeeze Josh, since he's frightened he'll accidentally also squeeze his drink and send it all over Josh's coat, but he squeezes Josh—and Tyler has never needed a hug more in his life than he does right now; Josh is _warm_ , and he smells like vanilla frosting, like sugar cookies. Tyler nearly melts.

"Do you want to hang out after I get off work?" Tyler asks, still in Josh's embrace.

And Josh, still in Tyler's embrace, says, "Sure."

*

Back at the ornament kiosk, Tyler tells Mark, "I won't be coming home tonight—maybe—I don't know—probably—who knows—make sure to put the lava lamp in my room, _please_."

"Be safe," Mark says.

*

Josh lives with his brother, his brother's partner, and his nephew in an apartment that's seen better days. By the time Josh arrives with Tyler long after the sun has gone down, his nephew is in bed, as are the child's parents. With their door open, Tyler assumes it's to let the tot travel into their room freely during the night, in case he has nightmares, but when Tyler glances into the room on his way into the bathroom down the hall, he catches sight of the two beds in the room—one adult-sized, the other child-sized; there isn't enough space in their apartment. When the time comes, Tyler thinks Josh would need to forfeit his own room for his nephew. The way Josh cares for him, Tyler knows he would give it up in a heartbeat, no matter the cost.

In the bathroom, Tyler pisses, washes his hands. He suffers a glance at his reflection, allowing the white mascara on his eyelashes, along with the heavy dots of blush on his cheeks and the tip of his nose to stay. Even if he wanted to scrub away the makeup, he doesn't have time; Josh is knocking on the door, asking Tyler if he's hungry, and if he is—does he mind splitting a plate of sugar cookies?

"Yeah, man," Tyler says, and can practically see Josh's smile through the wood.

And Tyler does hate himself for a second when he stands in the doorway of Josh's bedroom and thinks to himself, _Oh, I think I've known you my whole life_. Josh isn't doing anything spectacular for this thought to float to the forefront of Tyler's mind; he's sat on the edge of his bed, paper plate of sugar cookies on his lap, stripped down to an ugly Christmas sweater and sweatpants and fuzzy socks. He looks comfortable, at home, and Tyler is the intruder.

"Here," Josh says. "These are pretty sweet."

Tyler takes a seat next to Josh, ignoring the way the bells on his shoes _ting-ting-ting_ as he kicks them to the floor in order to pull his legs up on the bed with him. His hat also goes into the pile on the carpet. Good riddance.

The bed is a little stiff, the mattress old, the springs inside worn out, but Tyler shifts his weight and accepts a cookie from Josh. He takes a bite, chews, swallows.

Josh smiles, asks, "Yeah?"

His mouth full with another bite, Tyler gives Josh a thumbs up.

"Cool, okay." Josh looks down at the plate. Tyler does, too, admiring the icing work on them—snowmen with mismatched buttons and clothing. The frosting coats Tyler's teeth, makes them hurt, but it's a pleasant hurt. Over the years, Tyler has learned to differentiate between the types of hurt in his life. If it isn't his head hurting or him smashing his toe into a table or his elbow on a chair, it's a good hurt.

"D'ya think I'm weird?" Tyler asks Josh. "And before you answer that, ignore the fact I'm dressed like a gay little elf."

Josh stifles his laughter by smashing another cookie into his mouth. He doesn't bother to wait until he's finished eating to speak; he talks with his mouth full—"Even if you weren't dressed like a gay little elf, I'd still think you were weird. That isn't a bad thing," he adds, when Tyler's chin quivers the slightest amount. "I mean that," Josh says. "Look at me." He gestures toward himself. "I think I'm weird. Weird isn't bad."

"What makes me weird?"

And now, Josh doesn't bother to hide his laughter either. "Seriously?" His eyebrows draw together, his lips popping open in a gasp of disbelief. "Dude, you read palms and do tarot card readings—isn't that inherently weird, like, in general?"

"But anybody can learn," Tyler says, picking up another cookie from the plate. He breaks it in two. "Like I told you, most of the stuff I say is what I learned online. Anybody can do it. Anybody can just… set up a booth in the middle of a shopping mall and read people's palms for free."

"Why don't they, then?"

Tyler chews on this.

Josh continues, "Besides, there's something about you. Yeah, sure, anybody can do that, but there's just something about you that just… I dunno, man. You're trustworthy."

"It's because I have a baby face and soft hands."

"I bet that baby face and soft hands can read futures with anything." After setting the plate of cookies on his nightstand, Josh dives beneath his bed. Tyler watches him disappear for a moment, and then resurface, dust in his hair and a shoebox in his hands. As Josh places the box on the bed, Tyler brushes off the dust; and as Josh opens the box, Tyler clutches his stomach to contain his laughter.

"I—I don't know about _that_ ," Tyler says.

"Come on," Josh says. He holds out a deck of _Po_ _ké_ _mon_ cards, almost too big to fit in his fist, and smiles at Tyler. "I know you wanna."

So, because Tyler really wants to try to do this, he takes the deck from Josh. With Josh returning to his spot beside Tyler, Tyler splits the deck in half and dares to sneak a peek at the cards. "These are the _old_ ones," he says, and begins to shuffle each half. "Are the trainer cards and energy cards in here, too?"

"If that's okay?"

"It'd give me more of a challenge."

And his head hurts when he settles the deck between him and Josh and tells Josh to pick six cards. And his head, the pain spreads throughout his body. He tells Josh, "Flip the first one over for me. This will reveal how you feel about yourself."

That first card, Tyler closes his eyes, has to close his eyes, because he sees Cubone there, looking up at the dark blue sky with tears in its eyes, with its mother's skull as its helmet.

Without even waiting for Josh to react or ask a question, Tyler flips the second one over, too. This one, it's supposed to reveal what someone wants most right now, and this card—there's Kangaskhan, holographic background and its purple baby in her pouch spreading out its arms as if to say, _I'm right here_.

Josh rubs his thumb along Tyler's knuckles. He keeps his mouth shut, his eyes on Tyler, and Tyler wants to give him the answers to the deepest secrets of the universe. It feels like he has it in his chest, just waiting for Josh to make the right face with his eyebrows and his jowls, and Tyler will have the key to open it.

"D'ya know that thing where… where people sometimes fall in love with their therapists?" Tyler asks.

"I've heard something like that," Josh whispers.

"I'm starting to think," Tyler says, "that the readings I've given you… have actually been _for me_ , and I might have—might have planted in _your_ head that… I don't know." Tyler closes his eyes, shakes his head, shakes everything. "It _has_ to be connected, right? We met on my birthday. And my mom—it's been five years since—"

"Hey." Josh touches Tyler's wrists, his arms, his shoulders. Firm, yet gentle, he guides Tyler into his chest, over the _Po_ _ké_ _mon_ cards, and onto their sides, where they lay. "It's okay," Josh says, simple.

He pulls away from Josh just far enough to look at him. "Y'know when I told you that this time of year is… _complicated_ for me?"

Josh nods—slowly, then says, "Because of Christmas?"

"My birthday, too." Tyler watches Josh's eyebrows pucker in the middle, relaxing for a second before they're back together. To save Josh his theories, Tyler mumbles, "Look, my mom died on my birthday when I was fifteen. She had a brain aneurysm, and it _burst_ or whatever they do, and she died in her sleep, and now that's why I think my head always hurts around this time of year."

Tyler neglects to tell Josh he was the one who found her in the morning. Josh doesn't need to know that. Regardless of this fact, Josh still utters his condolences, and he raises his hand, wants to offer comfort in the form of touch—and Tyler raises his hand and lets Josh join them together.

"My siblings and I went to leave with my grandmother. My dad wasn't around anymore. She was our closest relative. And then, we all grew up, my siblings moved away, and I… _didn't_. It's fine," Tyler says, and doesn't know why he says it. He shuts his eyes, goes back to shaking his head, and Josh grabs at him, pulls him into his chest again, and Tyler makes a home right here, in the stitching of Josh's sweater, in the warmth of his torso and what lies within it.

What were the chances Tyler would meet Josh on his birthday—on the day his mother died from a brain aneurysm? Tyler met a lot of people that day, but Josh—he was the one who stuck around, with his red mohawk, his smile—and Tyler thinks that must count for something, if it counted for anything at all. And Josh—Tyler wonders if Josh thinks the same.

But he doesn't ask. And Josh, he rubs circles into Tyler's back and breathes into his bird's nest of hair, and only says, "Tomorrow. We can try again tomorrow."

For a moment, Tyler believes it.

*

In front of Tyler's apartment building, the heat cranked up in his car, Josh leans over the central console and kisses Tyler on the cheek.

Tyler turns his head and returns the kiss. Their noses meet before their lips, though this doesn't stop them. Tyler only has a brief sensation of pain shoot through his body before Josh's mouth alleviates the pain and replaces it with a roll of pleasure that arches his back and curls his toes. Josh squeezes one of Tyler's thighs. Desperate now, he's kissing Tyler with an open mouth, fingers like claws, and Tyler matches this. He clings to Josh, whimpering when Josh pulls away to run his tongue over Tyler's bottom lip. "You're soft," Josh tells him, and carefully kisses Tyler again.

Slowly, Tyler raises his hand, fingers spread out, and slides them into Josh's hair. Tyler breathes. "You're soft, too."

*

Mark doesn't say anything when Tyler, mascara running, walks into the kitchen. It's past midnight, Mark still has on that party cap, and Tyler rummages in the cabinets to make himself some tea.

"Already made you some," Mark says, pushing forward the mug. "Had a feeling you would be back."

"Who's psychic now?" Tyler sips.

"Actually, I just tracked your location on my phone."

Tyler shushes Mark. "Don't ruin the magic. Also, I brought home some sugar cookies. They're _so_ good."

*

On his desk, his lava lamp rests, along with his and Mark's sorry excuse for a Christmas tree. The snowmen ornament hangs off a flimsy limb. Tyler skims his thumb over his name, then Mark's.

*

"We're always changing," his mother used to say, "but our destinations are always the same. We might take different routes, might forget our way or our purpose… yet, we always keep on the same path. The sights we see, the people we meet—we cross them at exactly the right moment."

"Like fate?" Tyler asked, watching her shuffle her deck of tarot cards.

"Like fate," she agreed.

*

And in the morning, Tyler stretches out on his stomach and examines his palm. He knows the lines of someone's palm changes overtime, starting from the moment they were born. Palms, too, can change because of trauma. Tyler's heart line became broken after his mother's passing. He notes it now, seeing the long line intact and curving upward. He imagines hot red wax filling the holes, patching up the lines, molding him together again.

Despite it all, Tyler doesn't know if he believes in fate, but he still reaches to tug his phone from its charger on the floor and texts Josh, _our futures don't have fixed points, but i think you're a constant feature in mine_

Josh replies, _Like fate or something?_

And Tyler smiles. _maybe,_ he says _. what else could it be?_

_Our own doing, with no outside influences and only ourselves to take responsibility_

Tyler likes the sound of that.


End file.
